


Personal Interests

by Hambel



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambel/pseuds/Hambel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead body in the library means much more to Bodie than he dares to let on. An undercover assignment for Ray Doyle draws on skills he thought he'd finished with years previously. When the assignment is finished and secrets have been learned, can they go back to working together as before, or have the dynamics of their partnership shifted irrevocably?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Interests

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Pros Big Bang challenge in 2010. This story is a follow on to 'Dark alleys and nameless faces' and 'Little black book', but they do not need to be read in order to make sense of this one.
> 
> Artwork is by the fabulous [ancastar](ancastar.livejournal.com)

 

The honk of the horn and flash of the headlights signals Bodie's arrival outside Doyle's latest residence. Bodie leans on the horn longer than is really necessary in the hope it will wake Doyle up, and he's mildly disappointed to see that Ray is already up and waiting for him. Kicking the front door shut behind him, Doyle slides his lithe body into the car seat and flashes a grin by way of greeting. The usual banter is exchanged while Bodie puts the car into gear and the tyres squeal in protest as they pull away into the morning traffic.

"Who was the lucky girl last night then? Lily? Dawn? Or did Air Hostess Annie drop by for a stopover?" 

"Who says there was a girl?" Doyle's tone is light as he shifts on the seat. 

Bodie chuckles. Doyle's tetchiness has gone, which usually means one of two things. Either an op has gone spectacularly right and all the bad guys locked away, or he got his end away last night. As they're not working on anything major at the moment, he knows which he'd put his money on.

"Wonder what the Cow wants us in so early for." Doyle stares idly out of the window, scanning faces automatically as all CI5 agents do.

"He probably can't sleep, and doesn't want any of us to, either," Bodie replies, only half-joking. He grins when he hears the snort from his companion. "Well, 's true, yeah?"

"Yeah. Hey, stop here a mo, will you?"

"New copy of _Knave_ out, is it?" Bodie asks, as he brings the car smoothly to a stop outside a parade of shops.

"I only buy it for the articles," Doyle informs him, loftily, giving his partner a clear view of his denim-clad thigh and backside as he unfolds himself from the car.

Bodie strums his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for Doyle and speculates on the job that Cowley has lined up for them. Things have been fairly quiet lately and they've been on minding duties, watching that no harm comes to visiting diplomats while on British soil. No two days are the same in CI5 and although it makes for an interesting life, it means that relationships are difficult to form, as girlfriends grow tired of having yet another date broken at the last minute when something unexpected comes up.

A self-satisfied grin emerges as he recalls the way he spent last night. No girlfriend in sight, but an enjoyable evening nonetheless spent in front of the box eating Chinese takeaway and watching Liverpool beat the pants off Arsenal, followed by a night between the sheets with Melvin, a mate from his old SAS squad now working as a fitness instructor. He and Mel have an 'arrangement' whereby neither will tell the other's boss what they get up to together on their off-duty times, and that way they each keep all their limbs intact. Bodie's an open-minded kind of guy, and he's not ashamed of what he is, but he knows his proclivities wouldn't be looked on favourably by some people. In his job he keeps a lot of secrets; what's one more to add to them?

Doyle opens the passenger door, throwing his purchases onto the back seat and sinking into the front. Bodie eyes the magazine that fell out of the paper bag with the force of impact. 

"Good article this month?" he enquires.

"Yeah. Page thirty nine… Swedish."

"Swedish? All blonde hair and blue eyes?"

" _All_ blonde," Doyle confirms, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "And sapphire eyes." He rests his foot on the dash, re-tying his laces as Bodie puts the car into gear and looks over his shoulder ready to join the morning traffic again.

The radio in the car crackles.

"Control to 3.7."

Doyle picks it up. "4.5 here; 3.7's driving. Go ahead, Control."

"Join Alpha One at fifty-three Yew Tree Mansions in Court Road, 4.5 and 3.7. That's number five, three, Yew Tree Mansions. Priority. But _try_ not to break any speed limits."

"Fifty-three Yew Tree Mansions," Doyle repeats, grinning at the resigned tone in the dispatcher's voice and Bodie manoeuvres once more into the morning traffic. "We're on our way. 4.5 out."

He looks across at Bodie. "Yew Tree Mansions? That's a bit posh, innit?"

Bodie grunts and schools his face into an inscrutable mask, trying to give the illusion he's concentrating on his driving.

Truth is, he _knows_ number fifty-three Yew Tree Mansions and if CI5 are involved he's not going to like whatever's occurred there.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)   


 

Bodie pulls up beside Cowley's Granada in Court Road, blocking in a silver Porsche. Anson is standing guard on the front door of number fifty-three and he nods at them.

"What's going on here, then?" Doyle queries, thrusting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans as he runs an expert eye over the building and its surroundings.

Anson shrugs. "Dead body in the library. I reckon it was Colonel Mustard with the lead piping, but I haven't been allowed in."

"Any police?" 

"The Old Man sent them away. Says it's a CI5 matter."

Doyle turns to Bodie to make a flippant remark, which dies on his lips as he sees Bodie's face. Lips set together in a grim line, the clenched jaw and dark, hooded eyes that won't meet his tell Doyle his partner is holding something back. It's not the first time they've been called to a place like this and Bodie has always remained calm and professional as would be expected from them. CI5 don't hire cream puffs and anyone who can't hack the pace swiftly learns to get on with it or get out, and Bodie is usually first in line to tell them so.

Doyle tries to read beneath Bodie's inscrutable mask, but fails. "You ok, mate?" he asks, leaning in closer.

Bodie nods without looking at Doyle and pushes him forward, wordlessly. The warmth of the large hand on his waist as he's manoeuvred into the hallway reassures him a little in its familiarity.

"Bodie! Doyle! In here!" The clipped tones of their boss greet the two agents and Cowley appears in a doorway, beckoning them through.

They find themselves in a small library with an old-fashioned writing desk in one corner and the obligatory fireplace in the centre of the back wall. Bookcases filled with books of all descriptions adorn three of the walls. 

It could almost be straight out of an _Ideal Home_ magazine except for the blood-stained body on the wingback chair by the fireplace and the revolver sitting incongruously in its lap.

"Who's the stiff?" Doyle asks after flicking a glance at his partner and seeing that no questions are forthcoming from him.

Cowley snorts disapprovingly. "If you mean the body, man, it's one Jeremy Dalton. Late of this parish and working for a Junior Minister in the Home Office."

"Who found him?"

"A local bobby doing his rounds heard the gunshot and called it in. Once they realised who the victim was, they alerted us."

Doyle looks around him. "Any sign of a break-in, a struggle, anything to make you think this isn't a straight-forward suicide?" he asks, beginning to get impatient. There has to be more if Cowley has sent away the boys in blue and called in one of his top teams to investigate, and Bodie is being no fucking help whatsoever, just looking round at the bookshelves and glowering.

Cowley looks at him, sharply. "Well, for one, there's no note by the body. Aye, I know," he goes on, holding up a hand as Doyle starts to protest that not all suicide participants leave a note to tie up the loose ends, "but Dalton has been privy to many confidential papers that may have compromised his position. I need you two to find out if that's the case."

"Blackmail?" Bodie suddenly takes an interest for the first time, his eyes fixed on the Controller. 

"…Can't be ruled out," Cowley affirms. "Ah, here come the forensics team," he goes on as a group of men in suits and latex gloves appear at the doorway. He crooks two fingers and beckons them through. "Come in, gentlemen."

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Bodie takes the lead, still silent as the partners make their way upstairs to start a search of the rooms. Two double bedrooms and a bathroom lead off the landing, and he disappears into the first bedroom, determined to search Jerry's room himself.

The king-sized bed with its luxurious duvet and mountain of pillows lies un-slept in and dominates the room. Mirrored doors on the fitted wardrobes that run along one wall give the illusion of a much larger room. Bodie stares at the bed in the mirror and recalls how Jerry likes to turn his head and watch Bodie ploughing into him from behind, giving a full narrative in his public school accent of the rise and fall of Bodie's pale arse as he does so.

"Used to," Bodie reminds himself as he shakes his head, concentrating on the job he has to do. He hasn't the luxury of wallowing in daydreams with Cowley downstairs and Doyle in the next room, both looking for answers to questions they haven't yet thought of posing.

It doesn't take long to go through the room; Bodie's so used to searching through pockets that he could do it in his sleep and the wardrobe contents are soon discarded as sources of information. Apart from a stray ticket stub for _Alonzo's_ , an up-market gay nightclub, there is nothing out of place. A credit card statement in the bedside drawer shows nothing incriminating, but Bodie recognises an address book and stashes it unopened in his inner jacket pocket, along with the ticket stub.

Satisfied he's finished, he makes his way to the bathroom where Doyle is crouched down, searching the cupboards thoroughly. Bodie lounges in the doorway, for once not admiring the pull of his partner's jeans as the well-defined thigh muscles flex beneath them.

"Don't wear yourself out, standing there watching me work," Doyle gripes, good-naturedly.

"I thought you'd be finished by now. Was it hard work, going over that tiny bedroom?"

Doyle moves a shampoo bottle, then closes the cupboard door and straightens up. "Not much in there, mate," he replies, refusing to rise to the bait. "Find anything we should know about?" 

Bodie shakes his head while still looking round for signs of anything out of place. His gaze lands on the shower stall, sparkling clean like everything else in the house…

 

_"Fuck, Bodie, that's good."_

_"Yeah? You don't want me to stop then?"_

_"You stop and I'll… ahhh… withdraw my favours for a month."_

_"You wouldn't last a month without me. You know I'm the best."_

_"I know you've got the biggest--"_

_"Cock?"_

_"Ego!"_

__"…..Do you reckon it's big enough for two?" Doyle is saying, grinning lecherously on seeing where Bodie's gaze has landed.

"Yeah, looks it." Bodie snaps back to the present moment. "Let's go. We're finished here."

"What's the hurry?"

Bodie forces a grin onto his face. "New case. Gets the adrenaline pumping," he says, rubbing his hands together briskly.

"Yeah? Well just be careful where all that adrenaline is pumping to," Doyle scoffs and he follows Bodie out of the bathroom and back down to the hallway where Cowley is talking to McCabe and Lucas. Bodie grits his teeth as he eyes Jerry's body being zipped into an anonymous body bag and carried out by the men from the coroner's office.

Cowley turns his attention to them. "Anything?" he asks, sharply.

"Not so much as a shopping receipt out of place," Doyle informs him. "A very fastidious man, our Mr. Dalton."

"That would be the work of his housekeeper, a --"

Bodie supplies the name – _Mrs._ _Travis_ \- in his head while Cowley consults his notebook.

"—Mrs. Travis. She's in the kitchen, waiting to be interviewed by one of you. The other can go to _Fitness Types_ and speak with members of his gym. He was quite the regular customer there, according to Mrs. Travis. But be subtle about it. We don't want people knowing that we're investigating this just yet." He holds out what looks to be a membership card and Bodie takes it. While he has never met the esteemed housekeeper he doesn't want to run the risk that she may have seen him here with Jerry at some point.

"I'll take the gym," he says and smirks at Doyle, feinting a cheeriness he doesn't feel. "We don't want poor Raymond to feel overwhelmed by all that muscle and beefcake."

Doyle shoots him a glance. "All brawn and no brains, mate. You'll feel right at home. In the kitchen you said, sir?" he goes on, turning away from Bodie and looking enquiringly at Cowley.

"Aye. Down the hall at the back of the house. I believe she's making a pot of tea," Cowley says, wryly.

"I'd better get there before Anson drains the pot dry then," Doyle says, and makes his way down the hall.

"And what are you waiting for, man?" Cowley demands of Bodie.

"The gym, sir," Bodie answers, hopefully. "I take it I can put down membership on my expenses?"

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

The kitchen is smaller than Doyle expected it to be, but he supposes that meals would have been taken in the dining room, next to the library. Mrs. Travis confirms this while she pours out tea with a steady hand. A large woman with a no-nonsense approach to life, she answers Doyle's questions without blame or bluster.

"Have a biscuit," she urges, pushing a plate towards him. "I made them yesterday. Poor Mr. Jeremy won't be wanting them now." She purses her lips and shakes her head and Doyle hesitates as he realises he's about to eat a dead man's biscuits. 

"No, ta," he decides. "Had a big breakfast." He pats his tummy and that seems to satisfy her. "Did Mr. Dalton entertain a lot?"

"He had people over every weekend. Sometimes just one. Sometimes there were five or six."

Doyle reaches into his pocket for a notebook and pen. He hides the wince as his arse objects to the slight pull. As soon as he's out of here, he's using the antiseptic cream he bought earlier at the chemist's, next door to the newsagent's. Normally he doesn't mind the feeling, relishing the reminder of his previous night's activities, but right now he needs to concentrate on his work. "Any names?" he enquires, flipping open the notebook.

Mrs. Travis looks disapproving. "I don't know their names," she says. "I never saw anybody. I cooked for him and left instructions on what was to be served. That's all."

"Could you hazard a guess?" he asks, a smile playing around his lips.

"No. It's his business, not mine."

The smile dies on Doyle's lips and his voice hardens. "One of those people might have murdered him, Mrs. Travis. Don't you want to find out why? After all, you're out of a job now."

She sniffs. "I'm not out of a job. Jeremy Dalton isn't – _wasn't_ – my employer."

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

 _Fitness Types_ turns out to be a high-class gym with Jaguars and Mercedes vying for space with Lotuses in the car park. Bodie is glad he put the Capri through a car-wash yesterday as he parks it next to a gleaming open-top E-Type, similar to the one Doyle used to drive, only this one is all in one piece.

The chrome on the handles of the front door gleams in the morning sun. Inside there is an abundance of glass and more gleaming chrome and polished tiles. A dull _thud-thud_ can be heard in the main reception area which could be coming from any of the closed-off rooms nearby big enough to hold an exercise class in. 

It looks just the sort of place that Jerry liked.

Bodie shakes himself mentally. He's seen death in many guises and he's watched friends die without being able to lift a hand to save them. He knows that people have their own demons and that these are not always apparent, but he would have put his hand on heart and sworn that Jerry wasn't one of those people. 

He wants to find out who killed his friend and he won't be able to do that if Cowley finds out the true nature of their friendship. 

Squaring his shoulders, he walks across the reception area, his steps sounding militarily precise on the polished floor. There are two men standing behind the reception desk. The first is wearing a white t-shirt with _Fitness Types_ emblazoned across it and navy blue shorts that show off strong muscular thighs. The second man is slighter, wearing a pink skin-tight lycra t-shirt and hunched over a clip-board. On seeing Bodie, he straightens up and pushes the clip-board against the first man's chest, manoeuvring him out of the way.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asks, politely, his eyes raking up and down Bodie's body in such a way that Bodie knows exactly what kind of help is being offered. He flashes a beguiling smile and the receptionist surreptitiously clutches the counter-top for support. 

"I hope so," Bodie answers, switching to the cultured tones that have served him well in the past. "A good friend of mine recommended this place to me. Says you do a marvellous... workout."

"We offer a range of workouts, sir. Do you have anything particular in mind?"

"Squash courts, weights, sauna," Bodie says, vaguely. He leans on the counter. "Could you give me a guided tour?" He reads the badge pinned to the receptionist's t-shirt and adds, "Barry."

"I'll need some details from you first. Company policy," Barry elaborates at Bodie's raised eyebrow. Bodie recites his name and the address and phone number of the CI5 office that acts as a Post Office box for all agents on a case. 

"And for market research purposes, where did you hear about us, Mr. Philips?" The pen hovers over the paper as an expectant gaze is turned on him.

"A friend. Jerry Dalton, he's a member here."

"Ah, Mr. Dalton. A charming man. We don't see as much of him as we'd like." The tone is wistful as the pen scribbles on the paper.

"When was the last time he was in?"

Barry frowns. "I really can't tell you that, sir."

"Oh, go on," Bodie wheedles, looking around him as if to check that no-one is listening in. He lowers his voice. "Truth is: Jerry and I have had a bit of a falling out. I was hoping to bump into him here and maybe... buy him a drink. Or something. You get my drift?" He holds the other man's gaze, hoping he hasn't read the signals wrong. 

"Absolutely, sir," Barry replies after a moment. He looks over Bodie's shoulder. "Good morning, gentlemen," he greets two newcomers, a professional smile in place. "Squash courts, isn't it?" he asks, opening up the bookings ledger.

Bodie half turns and sees that two men carrying sports bags have just arrived. He nods courteously as they catch his eye.

"Yeah, my usual booking, Baz," the younger one confirms, his accent more East London than West. "My mate here's not a member. Can we do the necessary for him?"

"Of course, sir. I'll just need a few details from you."

While Barry is busy filling out the application form, Bodie manoeuvres himself into a position to be able to read the members' booking ledger, albeit upside-down. A quick perusal shows that Jerry was last in three days ago and has a squash court booked for tomorrow evening.

 _Had_ a squash court booked for tomorrow evening.

"Popular game, squash," Bodie remarks, when the other two men are on their way.

"It is, especially with the young professionals," Barry agrees. "Do you play much?"

"Not as much as I'd like to," Bodie admits. "May I take a look around now?"

"I'll show you round, myself," Barry offers.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," Bodie starts to protest.

"No trouble at all, I can assure you," Barry says, flashing a brilliant smile. "Just give me a minute to get reception covered and then I'm all yours."

Bodie smiles back. Of that, he has no doubt.

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Interviewing the neighbours doesn't take long, as most of them are out, and those that are in didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Doyle drives Cowley's car back to HQ and once there makes for the rest room, seeking out his partner. There is nothing about this case that's yelling 'foul play' to Doyle, but Bodie seems rattled by it and Doyle is hoping to find out why.

He takes the stairs two at a time and bangs on the rest room door before opening it. "Morning, lads and lasses," he says, cheerily, on going in.

Bodie looks up and grunts. Pettifer shifts position on the couch. "Piss off, Doyle," she mumbles, not bothering to open her eyes. "Some of us are on standby."

"And alert and ready to defend the nation at all times," Doyle answers, blithely. Pettifer replies with an unladylike snore. "Any tea in the pot?" Doyle asks the room.

"Yeah," Murphy tells him, making a careful study of the current Page 3 girl in his newspaper.

"Cheers." Doyle sniffs the milk warily, then splashes some into a fairly clean mug and pours the tea out. He takes a mouthful and spits it back out again.

"Murph, you bastard," he splutters. "It's cold!"

"'Course it is," Murphy says, unrepentantly. "I made it an hour and a half ago."

Doyle looks suspiciously at Bodie's mug with the steam rising off it. "Hot, is it? Your tea?"

"Yeah, thanks." Bodie picks it up and takes a mouthful. 

With a dark look at Bodie, Doyle busies himself with making a cuppa. 

"Neighbours helpful?" Bodie asks, leaning back in his chair.

Doyle shrugs. "Not really. No one saw anything out of the ordinary, although they're fairly used to seeing various people going in and out of Dalton's home." He pulverises the teabag in his mug with a spoon, before squeezing it and chucking it in the bin.

"What sort of people?"

"His mother visits once or twice a month; his father not quite so much. The housekeeper seems to think there's a bit of a family disagreement there." Doyle brings his tea over to the table and sits next to Bodie. "He worked during the day, and had people over at weekends, sometimes overnight."

"The neighbours tell you all that?" Bodie asks.

"Yeah, and Mrs. Travis. The housekeeper," Doyle elaborates in case Bodie has forgotten her. He takes a slurp of his tea. "Strange, though," he muses.

"What is?"

"According to the neighbours, all of Dalton's visitors were male apart from his mother. You don't suppose...?"

"What?" Bodie asks when Doyle trails off.

"You don't suppose he was queer, do you? Strictly men only and all that?"

"The word is 'gay' nowadays, not 'queer'," Bodie tells him, tightly. "Don't you keep up with the times?"

Although he would rather cut off his bollocks with a blunt knife and replace them with plasticine before admitting to Bodie just how he keeps up with the times, Doyle has no problems with either word.

It looks as though Bodie has, though.

"Yeah, I keep up with the times," Doyle replies, evenly. "Read the _Guardian_ , don't I?"

There's a hint of a smile on Bodie's face at this often used reason for knowing things. 

Reassured, Doyle goes on, "The only other thing the neighbours could tell me was what time Dalton got home last night but they couldn't actually agree on that. Some said half six as usual and others said he got home at a quarter to nine."

"Maybe he went out and came home again," Bodie suggests.

Doyle tilts his head. "Yeah, thought of that," he agrees. "I wonder where he went? Did he have an argument with someone that tipped him over the edge?"

Bodie leans forward, putting his elbows on the table and stares into his mug. It's a practised thinking mode and Doyle sits back in his chair watching the cogs whirring.

"He could have seen his parents," Bodie says, eventually. "You mentioned a family feud. Someone said something that got out of proportion, maybe. Has Cowley interviewed them?"

"Doing it now. Susan picked him up from the house. Cowley thought a female presence might help to soften the blow."

They exchange looks. "And he asked Susan?" Bodie says, incredulously.

Doyle shrugs. "You know Cowley. He has these weird ideas about birds."

Bodie nods sagely. "Probably wasn't breast-fed as a baby," he observes. 

"Were you?"

Bodie waggles his eyebrows. "Still am, mate."

Doyle chuckles. Bodie seems back on form now. "What did you find out at Beefcake Bertie's?" he asks.

"That our man was a squash player, occasionally worked out in the gym and last visited the place three days ago. He has a squash court booked for tomorrow evening."

"Chat the receptionist up, did you?"

"Hung on to my every word. It's the posh accent, dontcha know? Slays 'em every time."

Doyle doesn't doubt it for a second, although he snorts in disbelief at the claim, just for show. "Nothing unnatural going on there, then?" he asks.

Bodie shakes his head. "Only the size of the aerobic instructor's boobs," he adds. "More than a handful is a waste in my opinion, know what I mean?"

Doyle looks at Bodie's hands, brutal, strong yet reassuring, much like the man himself. He's felt those hands on his back, on his shoulders and the occasional friendly swipe across his arse. He's imagined them kneading his buttocks, imagined the fingers assertively and skilfully stretching and opening him up...

He looks up at Bodie's face, not shuttered or guarded the way it normally is when on duty, but open and friendly; trusting. He should stop this obsession with his so-obviously straight partner before it gets out of hand – if it hasn't already.

"Yeah, mate," he answers. Bodie looks as though he's waiting for something else. "What's your feel on this, then? Suicide? Murder? Gun cleaning accident?"

Bodie answers easily enough. "I can't see a reason for suicide yet. Healthy looking young man, single, good job, own home –"

"Not his."

Bodie looks surprised. "Whose?"

"According to Mrs. Travis, it belongs to another family member – his father's cousin, Rupert Dalton."

"The banker?"

"That's the one. He's out of the country at the moment. I've made an appointment with his secretary to see him as soon as he gets back into the country."

"So, what's _your_ gut feeling with this?" Bodie asks, sipping his tea. 

"Looks like suicide to me," Doyle replies. "But you don't seem to think so. Any reason why?" He watches Bodie for a reaction. Apart from the tightening of his partner's lips there's none, but Doyle senses he's rattled again.

"No. We're being paid to find out though, so come on, Goldilocks. Let's get finding."

Bodie stands and ruffles Doyle's hair as he passes. Doyle resists the urge to lean into the touch. _He'll have me bloody purring next_ , he thinks to himself in disgust, _I really need to get laid._

The pull in his bum as he stands reminds him he's tried that one already.

  


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"So... what is it you do for a living, again?" the brunette next to Bodie – Mary, he thinks her name is – yells into his ear. The disco is loud and crowded and not at all what he wants tonight.

"We're ballet dancers," he shouts back, leaning in close so that she can hear him. At her disbelieving look, he nods, looking wounded, and his fingers do a parody of _Swan Lake_ across the table. She starts to laugh.

"Is this a private joke or can anyone join in?" Doyle's deep voice carries well over the _thump thump_ of the disco beat. 

"He says you're ballet dancers," Mary yells.

Doyle exchanges a look with Bodie and smiles a slow, deliberate smile. Bodie tries to ignore his heightening libido. "We are," Doyle confirms. "Bodie's my understudy. His _grand plié_ is a thing of beauty, but my _grand battement derrière_ is unrivalled."

She looks from one man to the other, then pushes an empty glass across at Bodie. "My brain hurts," she complains. "Get us a drink, will you?"

Bodie gathers up the glasses. "Where's what's-her-name?" he asks Doyle, exaggerating the way he says the words so that his partner will be able to lip-read if he can't hear over the disco.

"Powdering her nose. Get the drinks in, sunshine." Turning so that Mary can't see his face Doyle winks at Bodie. _I reckon we're in_ , he mouths.

Bodie suppresses a grin and knocks companionably into Doyle's shoulder as he pushes past to get to the bar. The resulting laugh lingers in his ears, singled out amongst all the other cacophony of noise.

Later, with Mary lying beside him in a contented and sated sleep, the laughter still ringing in his ears sounds hollow and mocking.

  


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"We've been on this bloody case a week and we've got nowhere," Doyle declares, throwing his pen down in disgust. "Admit it, Bodie, there's nothing suspicious about it. We could be out there doing _real_ work."

"It's not down to me, is it?" Bodie replies, stubbornly. "We're on this until the Cow says otherwise."

Cowley appears at the door to the office they're working in, rustling the endless sheaf of papers in his hand. "Write up your reports and have them on my desk by noon," he tells them, brusquely. "The Dalton case is closed; the coroner will record a verdict of suicide and the family can have their funeral as soon as they wish it."

"But, sir—" Bodie protests, standing up.

Cowley holds up a hand. "There is no evidence to support any other theory, 3.7. He was a well-liked and well-respected man. There is also the matter of this..." He holds out a piece of paper.

Being closer, Doyle takes the paper from the Controller's fingers and reads it. It's a typewritten note on plain white paper and addressed to Jeremy Dalton. 

It's a blackmail note, reminding Dalton that the sender knows of his homosexual leanings and will inform the Home Secretary of them unless the sum of ten thousand pounds is paid in cash. 

Doyle whistles low, and hands the paper over to Bodie who reads it in silence. 

"Where did you find it?" Doyle demands, looking at Cowley. "We went all over the first floor and forensics did the ground. There's no way we would've missed this."

"It arrived in the post the day after Dalton's death. The wording implies that previous letters have been sent and that this was his last chance to pay up. Taken with the recent revelation that his biological father was Rupert Dalton and not the man who'd brought him up there was too much disgrace to the family name for him to deal with."

Bodie snorts, looking angry and clutching the note in his hand. "With respect, sir, I don't think people think that way anymore."

" _These_ people do," Cowley contradicts. "They're not like you or I, Bodie. To them, family and position is everything."

"It was hardly his fault his old lady was playing around."

"And with her husband's cousin, too," Doyle says, deadpan. "That's what I call keeping it in the family."

Bodie doesn't even crack a smile at Doyle's tasteless joke and Cowley looks disapproving. 

"And being gay is not illegal, sir," Bodie grinds out. He seems to be taking this a little too personally.

"I know the law, 3.7," Cowley snaps, impatiently. "It's still not something you parade in front of your employer and colleagues, though. _Is it?_ "

Doyle looks in surprise at Cowley, certain the man is talking to him with the last statement, but the man is still looking at Bodie who is glaring back.

"This case is closed and I want your reports by noon. Take the the rest of the day off and report in at 0600 hours tomorrow."

"Yessir."

"Sir."

Cowley leaves the room and Bodie sits down to fills out his report in silence. Doyle does the same.

"What?" Bodie snaps, after a while.

"Nothing, just..." _Something's up, sunshine, and I want to know what._

 __Bodie looks up, glowering. Doyle grins at him. "The man doth protest too much, methinks," he says, testing the waters.

As usual, Bodie cottons on to the banter. "First ballet, now Shakespeare," he grumbles. "Are you sure _you_ haven't turned?"

"Don't worry, your virtue's safe," Doyle declares, then: "Used to date a ballet dancer, didn't I?"

"Ballet dancers don't do Shakespeare."

Doyle waggles his eyebrows. "There was a friend at Drama School," he says, suggestively.

Bodie reluctantly breaks out into a smile. "A threesome?" he asks and Doyle nods. "You randy old toad!"

Doyle grins and buckles down to finishing off his report. It wasn't _exactly_ a relationship and if Bodie thinks they were both women, well.... It was a long time ago, anyway.

  


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Bodie loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his white shirt. It's been a bitch of a week, not helped by Doyle's whinging about babysitting duties and when-are-they-going-to-get-some-proper-work-to-do? Since Jerry's death there hasn't been much doing at work, which means that Bodie has had more time to brood. Managing to attend Jerry's funeral today has been an exercise in subterfuge and cunning and he's fairly sure that Doyle suspects something.

At the moment he can't bring himself to care.

Jerry was a good friend and Bodie's not sure he believes the bullshit about blackmail and family honour, but then he's never had much family to worry about. His mam died when he was six and after that it was just him and his dad, a hard-working, hard-drinking dock worker who expected his son to follow in his footsteps. Bodie had his own aspirations of seeing the world and they parted company amicably enough when Bodie was big enough and old enough to make his own decisions and fight his own fights.

He pours himself a drink of scotch and settles down on the sofa. It wasn't as if he and Jerry had an ongoing relationship – a phone call once in a while to see if the other was free suited both of them. It was a satisfying arrangement and one that only got better as time went on. More than once Bodie accidentally called out Ray's name in the heights of passion and although Jerry had looked puzzled the first time he didn't let it mar their arrangement. 

He might have been the perfect boyfriend if either of them were into that sort of thing.

Bodie sighs and pours another drink, having drunk the first without even registering the fact. Jerry's address book is sitting on the coffee table. Bodie's been through it a number of times but can't find anything out of order. He should have handed it in, but it's too late now. The case is closed and it will only stir things up without resolving anything. 

He goes to bed, alone and sober. Life goes on and so must he.

  


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Betty's office door is open. Bodie turns to Doyle, putting his finger to his lips, and they both creep in.

"Go right through," Betty greets them without turning round from her filing. "Mr. Cowley's expecting you."

"How did you know it was us?" Bodie demands, looking affronted. "We could have been assassins, come to execute Cowley."

"Assassins don't scuffle in the corridor like a pair of schoolboys," she sniffs.

Bodie smirks and lightly pats her rear as he passes, earning a look of disapproval. "Would you like to see my woggle?" he asks suggestively.

"That's scouts, that is," Doyle informs him, opening the door to Cowley's office and beckoning his partner through.

"Is it? What do schoolboys have, then?" Bodie asks, surprised. 

"Wet dreams and homework," Doyle replies, seriously. He acknowledges the Controller of CI5 with a nod. "You wanted to see us, sir?"

"Aye, sit down, both of you. I have an assignment." He slides a file across the desk, and sits back to watch their reactions. "Arthur Mallory."

"The Arthur Mallory that owns the Sports Centres?" Doyle asks, opening the file and passing a photograph to Bodie after giving it a swift perusal. Cowley nods. "He's straight, isn't he?" 

Bodie snorts and tries to cover it up with a cough. He doesn't fool Cowley. "Do you know differently, 3.7?" he asks, dourly.

"No, sir. That is…" 

"Two weeks ago," Cowley goes on brusquely, ignoring Bodie, "Mallory's business partner, Eddie Barrett, vanished along with ten thousand pounds of their payroll."

"So what's CI5's interest in it?" Doyle asks. "It's police business, surely."

"Arthur Mallory has quite an exclusive clientele using his Sports and Fitness Centres: titled people; influential people; people with money to spend and the time to do it in." He pauses. "And Eddie Barrett turned up face down in one of his own swimming pools last night."

"Drowned?"

"Strangled." 

Bodie makes a face. "And the money?"

"Hasn't been found yet."

"Do we know where Barrett was for that fortnight?"

Cowley shakes his head. "No, but the initial post mortem report points to Barrett having been killed around one week prior to being put in the pool."

He leans forward on the table. "We are receiving reports of 'turf wars'. Respectable businessmen trying to muscle in on another's patch either to make money or to show they are top dog."

"Isn't that just healthy competition, sir?" Bodie asks. 

"If it were their legitimate trades, then yes it would be," Cowley replies. "However, some have acquired their fortunes in less than orthodox ways and continue to trade that way. Naturally, there is no evidence to support this, so we must tread very carefully to obtain the evidence."

"How do we think they make their money?" Doyle asks.

"Prostitution and gambling. Oh, not your usual kerb-side offerings and back-street poker games, but sophisticated call girls and rent boys under the guise of escorts, and huge gambling dens in private residences at parties. There's a lot at stake in becoming Top Dog in London, and I want it stamped on before it gets out of control."

"Is Arthur Mallory one of the top dog contenders?"

Cowley shakes his head. "No, it was Barrett who was rumoured to have aspirations to the crown. Although Mallory is implicated, it's not certain whether he's aware or approves of his late partner's other activities."

"Why would Barrett steal his own payroll if he has other income?" Doyle muses.

"That's one of the questions I want answering," Cowley replies. He produces some more files and places one each in front of Bodie and Doyle. The others he puts on top of the one containing information on Mallory and, lacing his fingers together, settles back to watch their reactions.

Bodie opens his file first. "The Managing Director of an import/export company," he muses. "I take it I'm not strictly legit?" He raises an eyebrow as he looks across at his boss.

"Not entirely," Cowley agrees, "although nothing has ever been proven against you." Bodie glances back at the papers while Cowley carries on. "Your company sometimes has more imports than is shown on the books."

"What sort of imports? Or am I not fussy if the price is right?"

"Items that your clients don't wish to pay Customs duty on, such as works of art or valuable collectibles. Stolen goods smuggled in to sell to an undiscerning buyer. Restricted items -- guns and other armoury. No... as long as your client can meet your fee, you'll carry anything through in with your own legitimate cargo."

Bodie nods and murmurs in agreement. His body stiffens as he reads through the rest of the file. 

"Sir?" Doyle asks before Bodie can form any more questions. "If anything should... happen... while we're on this case, it _will_ be put on our record that we were working undercover, won't it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, 4.5, but as long as you get results it will be taken into consideration," Cowley affirms, not meeting his eye.

Some of the tension leaves Bodie as he leans across to his partner. "Why? What've you got?"

Doyle shuts the file and places a hand on top of it. "Apparently, I'm a male escort," he answers, evenly.

Bodie's eyebrows rise. "For rich ladies whose husbands pay them no attention? You jammy sod!"

Doyle hesitates and watches Bodie as he replies, "For rich men who want some attention without others knowing about it."

"Blimey." Bodie lets out a breath and then grins. "I'm a rich man," he says, tapping the file. "Maybe you can give me some attention, sunshine."

Despite himself, Doyle grins. He doesn't want to play this game but if it means Bodie will play too, maybe... just _may_ be he can get this obsession with his partner under control.

"Read each other's undercover background files thoroughly," Cowley interrupts, tersely. "Once you're fully briefed and you've read the rest of these files on the main players, you'll be ready to go. Andreas Papadopoulos, the Greek millionaire playboy and businessman is hosting a party in a week's time. I expect you to have an invitation to attend." His eyes fix on Bodie. "I'm certain that _one_ of you, with your contacts, will be able to arrange that."

"I'm sure we will, sir," Bodie agrees, cheerfully, the prospect of a real case appearing to boost his mood. "I take it Mallory is attending this party, too?"

"He is. He's worth keeping an eye on, but I don't think he's the main prize."

Cowley pauses, seeming as though he's thinking of something. Bodie and Doyle exchange glances. "Sir?" Bodie ventures.

"Mmm?" Cowley shakes his head, as if realising where he is. He gathers up the remaining files and thrusts them at Bodie. "Off you go and read these... both of you. There are contacts to be made before the party next week."

They get up together and leave Cowley's office, voicing their assent. Doyle puts a hand on Bodie's arm and turns back as if he's just remembered something. 

"I just need to see the Old Man about …. something," he says to his partner. "Put the kettle on. I won't be long."

At Bodie's surprised expression, Doyle forces a smile onto his face. "Well, go on. Or do you want me to hold your hand, darlin'?" he finishes, leering.

Bodie sniggers, and camps it up. "As long as you don't crush me delicate little fingers, you big butch thing," he simpers, mincing out of Betty's office.

Doyle watches him leave and re-opens the door to Cowley's inner office. Cowley doesn't look up. "Yes, 4.5?"

"You knew I'd be back in to see you." He closes the door behind him.

"I can see you're not happy with the assignment."

"Damn right I'm not happy. What do you think you're playing at?"

"I'm not _playing_ at anything." Cowley yanks off his glasses and looks at Doyle. "Och, sit down, man." he says, tetchily.

"I'd rather not. Sir. What I _would_ like is for Bodie and me to be taken off this assignment."

"There's no-one else suitable for this kind of job."

"There are others. McCabe and Lucas—"

Cowley makes an exasperated noise.

"Alright then, maybe not. What about Murphy and Jax? Murphy's taller than Bodie, just as imposing—"

"But not nearly as menacing. And who would believe Jax has ever been a rent boy?"

They stare at each other for a heartbeat, Doyle trying hard to bite down the bile he feels at the words so vehemently spoken. "But they'd believe it of me," he states softly. 

Blanking all emotion from his face, Doyle carries on evenly. "We'll have to play it your way, I suppose, sir. But don't be surprised if you find Bodie's resignation on your desk at the end of it."

"Is that a threat, 4.5?"

Doyle shrugs. "Just a friendly warning, sir. Bodie might begin to believe my act. He might decide I'm not the sort of person he wants to work with, after all."

"Bodie's a mercenary. He's hardly whiter than white."

"An _ex_ -mercenary."

"Aye, just as _you_ are an _ex_ -"

Doyle closes his eyes, waiting for Cowley to say it. 

"Bodie will work with whomever I choose and so will you, Doyle. I own you both. CI5 owns you both! It's in the small print. Don't forget it!" 

Doyle opens his eyes and Cowley waves his hand, snapping, "Dismissed, 4.5!"

  


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The door to the rest room opens and Bodie pushes a mug of tea across the table without looking up from the file he's reading.

"Thanks," Doyle says, slurping it noisily and sinking into the chair next to Bodie. He picks up one of the files on the table and starts reading.

"Get it sorted?"

"Not really. You know the Cow."

Bodie grunts in confirmation. If Ray wants to tell him what's on his mind, he'll do so when he's ready. He throws down the file he's been reading and stretches his arms above his head, yawning widely.

"You should get to bed at a decent hour," Doyle remarks.

"Chance'd be a fine thing in this outfit," Bodie retorts. "Anyway," he smirks, "getting to bed early doesn't necessarily mean going to sleep early."

"Bloody does in my case," Doyle complains. "My right hand's getting fed up of doing all the work lately."

Bodie links his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair, imagining Doyle's calloused fingers on his cock, pulling the foreskin up and swiping his thumb over the head.

He brings the chair crashing down to rest on four legs. Doyle raises an eyebrow. "Lose your balance?"

 _Lost my fucking mind, more like_. "Come on, sunshine, you must know that file off by heart now," Bodie says to cover up his inattention. 

"Nearly finished." He leans closer to Bodie to show him a photograph. "Shifty looking bugger, isn't he?"

Bodie rests his chin on Doyle's shoulder to get a better look. "Who's that?" he asks.

"Eddie Barrett," Doyle replies easily. "Seen him somewhere before?" 

"Yeah. Jerry's funeral."

There's a split-second of silence and Bodie swears forcefully in his head. 

"Jerry?" Doyle asks.

"Dalton." He lifts his chin off Doyle's shoulder and reaches for his tea. "The guy whose death is no longer suspicious enough to require our services." 

"Ah." Doyle half-turns in his chair. "I wasn't aware Cowley had sent anyone to the funeral." His tone is quizzical.

Bodie takes a gulp of his tea. He can get out of this. He can say 'oh, didn't you? Yeah... well you were busy and I can carry off a suit better than you can. Stands to reason, doesn't it?' 

Instead, he finds himself saying, "Jerry was a friend of mine."

"You didn't say." There's a pause, then Doyle adds, "You told Cowley though."

Bodie makes a face. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly? What sort of answer is 'not exactly'? It's not exactly an answer, is it?" 

"Alright, then, no. I didn't bloody tell Cowley." He slams his tea down on the table, sloshing some over the side of the mug. Why can't Doyle leave bloody well alone? Always has to niggle away at things until they make sense in his own head. Sometimes it's better to let things be.

Doyle sucks in a breath. "Bloody hell, Bodie. Personal interests have to be declared – you know that. You could have blown the whole case apart by not saying anything."

"Doesn't matter now, the case is closed."

"And Cowley will re-open it if there's a link between Barrett and Dalton, which there very well could be."

"And it could be a big fat coincidence," Bodie replies, stubbornly, not really believing it himself.

"We only believe in coincidences when all other possibilities have been discounted," Doyle paraphrases.

"You've investigated friends before."

"Yeah, and Cowley always knew up front. You can't hide anything from him, Bodie."

"He was my friend, Doyle. I needed to know what happened to him," Bodie shouts, slamming his hand palm-down on the table.

"I can understand that, mate, and Cowley would too. Why can't you tell him?" Doyle suddenly looks suspicious. "Are you hiding something?" he accuses.

There's a clear challenge in Doyle's eyes and Bodie wants to look away but he can't.

The door opens and in saunter Murphy and Lake.

"Aww, look. It's the lovebirds," Murphy coos. Lake looks unimpressed. "Hey, you two," Murphy goes on, "can you do the staring into each other's eyes bit in your own time? Some of us want to eat in here, you know." 

"Fuck off, Murph," they chorus, breaking eye-contact with each other and glaring at the lofty agent. Murphy flicks them the V's as he picks up a newspaper and settles into an armchair while Lake makes a lot of noise in filling up the kettle and switching it on.

"Noisy in here, don't you think?" Doyle says, switching back to Bodie. "Shall we go somewhere more --?"

"Private?" Murphy suggests.

"—civilised," Doyle finishes.

"Your place or mine?" Bodie asks and there's a series of cat-calls and wolf-whistles from the other agents. Doyle's mouth twitches; he's holding back a grin. Standing up, Bodie gathers the files to him. "Come on, Butch," he simpers. "Let's get away from this uncouth bunch of ingrates."

As usual, Doyle knows how to play the game. His voice deepens as he answers. "Alright, petal, but we'll go to my place unless you've got that leak fixed in your water bed."

"Be gentle with him, Doyle," Lake calls out as they make their way to the door. "He's only a poor little CI5 agent – no match for your sophisticated constabulatory ways."

Doyle opens the door and beckons Bodie through with an exaggerated flourish. Playing to the gallery, Bodie inclines his head at Doyle graciously before going through. 

Doyle closes the door behind them and Bodie grins as he hears Murphy complaining, "That's not even a real word!"

  


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Doyle relishes the challenge of working undercover. He enjoys getting into character to pit his wits against people who think they're above or outside the law. There's something intensely satisfying about pulling the rug out from under someone's feet when they think they're getting away with something. Living on a knife edge, always being one step ahead is second nature to him and just two of the reasons he was recruited into CI5 in the first place.

Of this particular challenge Doyle will have to be especially careful. Playing male escort to Bodie's rich businessman sounds like a fantasy come true, but if he doesn't watch out, he'll give too much away. Having played the part for real in his misspent youth he knows what's expected of him, but he's not sure how far he can push Bodie. 

_All the way would be nice_ , he thinks, allowing himself the luxury of imagining that Bodie would welcome his advances. Bodie's a military man, used to the camaraderie and male bonding that comes with the territory of men that have to depend on each other for their lives, but what Doyle has in mind for him goes above and beyond the call of duty.

A silver Capri slides to a halt in front of him. 

"Get in, Doyle; you're making the streets look untidy!"

Doyle opens the passenger door and gets in, settling himself comfortably in the familiar seat. Bodie re-enters the stream of traffic with a squeal of tyres.

"You got an invitation?"

"Of course." Bodie looks smug.

"Of course," Doyle repeats, amused. "What did it cost you?"

The smug look is wiped off Bodie's face. "It never costs me, sunshine," he says, changing down a gear as he approaches the lights. "I'm owed too many favours, aren't I?" 

Doyle wonders what the favour was and then thinks he really doesn't want to know. "Word on the streets," he says, "is that Papadopoulos and Barrett were on the verge of making a deal."

"Reliable?"

Doyle nods. "Pretty much. They know I take exception to being lied to."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. Apparently Arthur Mallory is involved in the prostitution game, but as a client, not the business owner."

"Really? Why would a man like him pay for a woman? He's not that bad looking. Is he?"

"I've seen worse," Doyle admits. "But it's not women he pays for."

"Ah." 

Doyle can see that the penny's dropped.

Bodie smirks. "You'd better watch out then, sunshine. Pretty boy like you—"

"It's not the pretty boys he likes, though," Doyle answers, not smiling back and feeling irked at being labelled a 'pretty' boy. "It's men like you."

"Tall, dark and handsome?"

Doyle snorts. "Ex-Army," he corrects. "A bit of muscle who's used to following orders."

Bodie makes a face. "I'll be sure to steer clear," he says. "I only take orders from Cowley."

There's a split-second of silence and then Bodie's lips twitch. "You know what I mean," he protests, trying to be serious, and failing as they both burst into gales of laughter.

Working undercover suits Doyle. He gets off on the adrenaline high as they iron out the details, working smoothly as a team. He and Bodie have been likened to an old married couple, the way their thoughts run parallel and the way they anticipate each other's moves. They get their legs pulled about it a lot by the others at HQ.

It doesn't bother Doyle. If he can't have Bodie in his bed, at least he can have this.

  


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Andreas Papadopoulos' home is an imposing mansion in the Suffolk countryside. Once owned by the lord of the manor, it fell into disrepair until death duties took their toll and the house with all its acreage was sold into the hands of someone outside of the family.

Papadopoulos welcomes his guests into a huge room that must have once been a ballroom, hosting balls for the landed gentry of yesteryear. This evening a smoky haze hovers above tables of all shapes and sizes: baize-covered tables to play games of poker and blackjack on, highly polished tables and tables adorned with fancy tablecloths to chat around. 

It's a room to do business in. _Dirty business_ , thinks Bodie. _He's not even trying to hide what's going on here_. Looking around while Papadopoulos points out tables of interest, he mentally catalogues the number of doors and speculates where they might lead to. He's already worked out the quickest exit from the room should there be any trouble, when he turns back to his host.

Papadopoulos is a big man with a hearty laugh who looks as though easy living has softened him. However, Bodie has had a lifetime of studying people and he can tell the laugh is an automatic reaction and not a genuine emotion. The dark eyes have steely depths to them that remain hidden to those who don't bother to maintain eye contact for too long.

Papadopoulos is a ruthless man and Bodie is itching to scratch beneath the surface of that jovial exterior to find out just _how_ ruthless he can be.

In accordance with the roles they're playing, Doyle goes to mingle while Bodie stays to chat with their host. Marty Martell has played his part well in setting up the introductions for Bodie. Papadopoulos asks questions about the import/export company that Bodie is supposed to be managing and they agree to do business later when the drinks have finished flowing and the gambling tables are dwindling.

Papadopoulos claps Bodie on the back. "For now, you must enjoy yourself," he says, enthusiastically. "My home is at your disposal and your young man looks as though he might stray if you leave him for too long." 

They both look across at Doyle, leaning against a pillar and chatting to a slender young man who looks familiar to Bodie. Both have drinks in their hands and appear to be getting along very well.

Bodie sips his own drink. "He has a habit of doing that," he says, coolly. "I will have words with him."

Papadopoulos chuckles. "He is smitten with you, that much is obvious. I don't imagine you'll have too much trouble. Unless he likes that sort of thing, of course." He winks at Bodie and goes off to greet a man who has been hovering nearby for a chance to speak with him.

Bodie looks at Doyle again. To an onlooker, he looks like a playboy: designer suit, low cultured tones and an easy confidence that conveys someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed quickly and without question. To a trained eye he looks as though he's playing a game: the sensual grace hints of a man unafraid to use _all_ of his assets to get his own way and the fleeting touches he's been giving Bodie hint at a fierce possessiveness designed to scare away all but the most confident or arrogant.

Bodie's not sure which persona is turning him on the most.

He smiles wryly. "You're here to do a job," he murmurs to himself and wanders over to the two in question, keeping the smile in place. It freezes on him as the young man that Doyle is talking to looks up and they instantly recognise each other. 

Doyle turns. "Everything alright, Andrew?" he asks, catching on to Bodie's body language where no-one else would.

"Fine, fine," Bodie reassures him, placing a proprietary hand in the small of Doyle's back. "I didn't realise you knew Barry."

"We were just chatting," Barry says with a nervous laugh. "No formal introductions have been made at this point."

"Then allow me," Bodie says, theatrically, gesturing with his drink. "Barry, this is my dear friend," – he places a subtle emphasis on the word 'dear' – "Raymond Brown. Raymond, this is Barry ... I'm sorry, I don't know your last name?" 

"Thompson.... Barry Thompson."

The two men shake hands and Bodie reluctantly takes his hand off Doyle. 

"Barry works at _Fitness First_ , Raymond," Bodie explains. "Poor, dear Jerry was a member there."

"Jerry?" Doyle looks surprised and Bodie hopes he catches on quickly. He does. "The guy who...?" Doyle puts two fingers to his head and mimes a gunshot. 

Bodie nods and Barry winces, looking around him uncertainly. His behaviour is puzzling Bodie. The person he met at the gym was flirty and bubbly and not at all like this edgy young man standing before him. 

"Mr. Dalton," Barry says, abruptly.

Bodie is about to agree that, yes, that's the one, when he realises Barry is looking over Doyle's shoulder. Both agents turn to look and see a short, dark-haired man scowling at them. His attire screams money and the Rolex on his wrist is the genuine article and not a knock-off from the local market.

"Mr. Mallory wants you, Thompson," the new arrival snaps. 

Bodie's mouth grows dry. The brown eyes glaring at him are Jerry's, without the warmth and affection he's used to seeing there. 

Doyle glances at Bodie and puts a reassuring hand on his arm.

"Yes, Mr. Dalton," Barry says, not looking at either Bodie or Doyle as he slips past them and goes off with the scowling man.

"You alright?" Doyle asks softly.

Bodie takes a deep breath. "Yeah." He lets out a shaky laugh. "Barry looked as though he'd seen a ghost. I was half-expecting to see Jerry there when he said..."

Doyle nods. "Was he a relation, do you think?" 

Bodie frowns as he tries to remember if he's seen the man before. "Could be. I'm pretty sure he was at the funeral," he says, finally. "And he looks like Jerry around the eyes."

Doyle nods again, apparently content to go with Bodie's judgement on that. "The banker?" he asks.

"Too young. This guy's around Jerry's age, give or take a couple of years."

"The banker's son, then? Did he have any kids? Apart from—"

"Apart from Jerry," Bodie answers in unison. "We can check it out easily enough. Well... we _could_ if the case was still open." He feels like punching something but he's vaguely aware of Doyle's hand on his arm, reassuring and familiar.

Just when Bodie thinks he's got away with the whole 'Barry' episode, Doyle moves closer to him, saying, "So that was the receptionist you chatted up?" His grin is wicked as he goes on, "You little devil!"

  


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Doyle curls his hand around Bodie's upper arm and leans in. "Need the loo," he says. "Back in a mo."

Bodie nods. "Don't get lost," he advises. "It's a big house."

Doyle responds in an ungentlemanly manner and Bodie looks scandalised. 

Doyle is still chuckling to himself while washing his hands under gold-plated taps. Exiting the toilet he's vaguely aware of someone behind him quickening their steps and instinct takes over when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Swivelling around, he knocks the hand away and takes hold of his assailant's arm, twisting it up behind the other man's back. With his other arm, he pushes the man against the wall, holding him in place with his body.

"As much as I like being pinned against a wall... I'd rather you weren't too rough..." the man says, breathlessly, not attempting to struggle. "I usually charge extra for that."

"Why are you following me?" Ray hisses.

"I'm not foll — Jesus, Ray, it's me, Alan! I saw you coming out of the Gents' and thought I'd say hello while there's no-one else around."

"Alan?" Doyle relaxes his grip a little as he recalls a young man with an afro as big as his attitude, and an ability to talk his way out of any situation. "The only Alan I know was a skinny runt who never said no as long as the money was good."

"I may have put on a few pounds, but I still never say no as long as the money is good."

Doyle releases his hold and steps away, looking at the man he once called friend. It's true that Alan has put on weight, but there's muscle there too, and it suits him.

Alan turns around, rubbing his arm, ruefully. "You always were a paranoid sod, Ray. I see you haven't mellowed at all. You're still looking good, though, my man."

Doyle reluctantly breaks out into a smile. "You too, Alan. You're a way off your patch. Are you working, or have you found yourself a rich old man to live off?"

"Working. You?"

"Yeah. Got myself a regular client. Tend to be a bit selective nowadays."

"The guy you're with? He's a bit tasty."

Doyle nods. "He is." He's always thought so, although Bodie would knock his block off if he knew.

"Is he into threesomes?" Alan asks, hopefully. "We used to work well together as a team."

"He hasn't said and I haven't asked," Doyle replies, evenly. He leans a shoulder comfortably against the wall and folds his arms. "Who are you with now?"

Alan shrugs. "The men at the top, they come and go. Jacobs, Barrett, Papadopoulos. Who knows who it'll be next week?"

"It changes that quickly?"

"Yeah, it can do. Me, I just keep my head down. Time's against me now and it takes longer to keep my body looking this good nowadays." He flashes a grin. "What about you? Tell me all that's natural and I'll deck you."

Doyle moves slightly, out of reach of Alan's famed right hook. "Oh, yeah. Clean and simple living will do that for you," he asserts, deadpan.

Alan snorts. "Pull the other one." He glances over Doyle's shoulder and Doyle tenses as the dark eyes flicker with recognition. "I have to go," Alan says with regret, moving closer and running a hand down Doyle's arm. The intimacy of it makes Doyle ache.

"Back to work," Doyle says, lightly.

"'Fraid so. Teresa wants me as back-up. Dalton has decided she's his good luck charm on the tables and he can turn nasty if he starts losing again. Which he's bound to do."

Alan presses a kiss to Doyle's cheek and squeezes his hand. "I'll catch up with you later," he promises quietly, taking his leave. Doyle turns to see Alan link arms with a blonde-haired woman wearing an emerald-green, backless evening dress and walk off with her in the direction of the card tables.

Doyle scans the room and spots Bodie talking to a glamorous-looking woman with dark hair piled elegantly on her head, and an evening dress cut so low that she can't possibly be wearing a bra with it. Even in a room filled with similarly-dressed men in evening wear, Bodie is easy to find. Doyle has watched his back for so long that he knows it better than he knows his own: broad shoulders and muscled arms hidden rather than enhanced by the cut of the jacket which covers the tantalising curve of Bodie's bottom; strong rugby-player's legs that have held both of them up more times than he cares to remember.

Bodie has always looked good in a suit but tonight he looks like a playboy and he's turning on the charm for men and women alike. 

The woman has gone by the time Doyle draws near to Bodie. "Another conquest?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Bodie's murmuring assent is smug. "Adrienne Papadopoulos, our hostess with the mostess. You took your time. Did you get lost?"

There's a note of concern underlying the words. "Had a chat with one of the employees," he says and lowers his voice. "Apparently, Eddie Barrett used to run the prostitution racket before Papadopoulos took over."

Bodie moves closer to catch the words. "For how long?" he asks, his eyes flickering around the room automatically.

Doyle shrugs. "Not long from the sound of it. I reckon Barrett did the dirty on Papadopoulos and was taken out of the equation permanently."

"As easy as that, eh?"

"Doesn't have to be complicated. The hard part is finding evidence to back it up."

Bodie smiles coldly as his eyes come to rest on Papadopoulos. "Then let's find some."

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Being the better card player Bodie finds himself in a poker game while Doyle wanders among the other guests doing what Doyle does best – mingling and gathering information. It's no coincidence that Dalton the Unknown is seated at the same table, a little the worse for drink and accompanied by a young, blonde-haired woman in a green evening dress. She appears to be something of a good luck charm whose fortune is wearing off if the dwindling pile of chips at Dalton's hand is anything to go by. Dalton is playing recklessly and for high stakes, and with each losing hand his mood gets blacker. Bodie could have finished the game half an hour ago, but he prefers the long drawn-out approach, finding it usually gets him more information that way.

Dalton is still betting heavily and starting to sweat, though whether through too much drink or too much stress is anyone's guess. He has none of Jerry's charisma or accepting attitude, and if it weren't for the eyes Bodie would be having serious doubts that they could be related at all, let alone be half-brothers. 

An attractive black man in his late thirties brings over drinks for the woman and Dalton. She smiles gratefully and Dalton waves the man away impatiently. The man hovers not far from the woman, watching the game as well as Dalton. Bodie catches his eye and is surprised when the man frowns and shakes his head slightly.

Bodie folds his cards and excuses himself from the table. Dalton seems delighted that he's leaving and even manages to share a joke with the man beside him. Bodie doesn't give the table a backwards glance, but he can sense he's being followed. 

Leaving the room by the main doors, Bodie turns into a corridor and waits in the shadows for his pursuer. A minute later, Dalton's drinks carrier turns the corner and stops, looking around.

"You looking for me?" Bodie asks, stepping out of the shadows, keeping his arms hanging loosely by his sides.

"Yeah." The man looks around and moves closer to Bodie. Bodie stands his ground, ready to start defensive tactics if needed. This bloke looks as though he can take care of himself. "I know I'm speaking out of turn, but if you consider yourself a good friend to Ray, then get him out of here now."

That wasn't at all what Bodie was expecting to hear. "Why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, you'll lose him to Papadopoulos... or even Mallory. I'm certain they won't treat him as well as you do."

Bodie wonders if the man is an informant of Doyle's. But then, he's showing a lot of concern for someone who's only a grass. "And how do you know how I treat him?"

"Because he's..."

The sound of footsteps in the corridor stopping outside the door causes him to trail off. 

Without speaking, Bodie grabs hold of the man and pulls him over to one side, keeping him out of the line of fire, should events turn out that way. The door handle turns and the door pushed open slowly. Bodie unbuttons his jacket to give himself better access to his gun. 

Andreas Papadopoulos walks into the room, flanked by two burly men with no necks and an obvious bulge under their arms.

Realising how the scene could be construed, with one hand on his companion, Bodie plasters on a winning smile and opens his mouth to speak. 

Papadopoulos beats him to it. "Mr. Philips. Alan," he acknowledges with a tilt of his head. "I have rooms for this sort of thing, you know."

Bodie inclines his head and Alan stays stock still. A swift sideways glance and Bodie can gleam nothing from Alan's expression. He focuses on Papadopoulos. "I was merely making enquiries -- a spur of the moment thing. I need to run the idea past my partner before we decide on..." Bodie removes his hand "...anything." 

"Even so," – Papadopoulos' eyes glitter – "it would be best if you came to me first, Mr. Philips. I could match you with the most compatible of my boys."

"Of course. My apologies." He gives a wry grin. "I was rather taken with Alan here and common sense flew out of the window."

"It happens to the best of us. Now... if you don't want Alan for the time being, he can be utilised elsewhere. Time is money, you understand."

Bodie takes his leave and heads back to the table he was playing at. He hasn't finished with Dalton yet.

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Doyle runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time and arriving at the bottom barely out of breath. _Gawd bless you, Macklin_ , he thinks, forgetting the times he and Bodie have cursed the man's very existence for pushing them hard during training. He runs a hand over his trouser pocket to ensure the evidence he's just acquired is still there, straightens his jacket and makes sure his bow tie is not skew-whiff. He hates formal wear, would much rather be wearing jeans and a tatty old t-shirt than this monkey outfit. Bodie, the bastard, wears his like a second skin, looks good in it and bloody knows it.

Not that he has any intention of telling his partner that, of course. The man's ego doesn't need to be stroked any more. Other parts of him, though...

The lights in the main room have been turned down low, creating an intimate atmosphere. Walking past a table filled with cigar-smoking men, Doyle feels a groping hand land on his left buttock. He stops dead and swivels round quickly, clasping his own hand around the offending wrist and lifting it away.

"I'm not public property," he addresses the owner fiercely, a red-faced, balding man of indeterminate age. "You want a piece of me, you'll pay just like anyone else."

The man splutters and tries to pull his hand away, but Doyle's grip is tight. "How much?" he manages to ask.

Doyle puts his face close to the man. "If you have to ask..." he says, running his tongue seductively over his lips. The man's eyes light up in anticipation. 

Doyle twists the arm viciously before letting it go. "...you can't afford me," he finishes, straightening up and walking away. The sound of derisive laughter rings in his ears as the man's companions make their merriment known. He doesn't think he'll have any more trouble there, but he's remembered the man's face just in case there are problems later.

He's beginning to remember why he wanted to give up this game in the first place. Damn Cowley for making him relive this.

But then there's Bodie, sitting at the table, playing poker and gathering information, and Doyle knows that he'll do whatever Cowley asks to give Bodie the best backup and to keep him alive.

And Cowley bloody knows it, too.

Bodie tenses as Doyle moves to stand behind him.

"It's me," Doyle says in a low voice before placing a hand on Bodie's shoulder. "Are you winning?"

"Yeah. Been checking out our hosts?"

"Yeah. Been keeping an eye on me?"

Bodie smiles, slowly. "Always, sunshine."

Dalton lays down his cards with a smirk of triumph, interrupting their hushed conversation. "Four kings," he says, sitting back in his chair, smugly.

Bodie lays his cards down and Dalton's expression turns ugly as the diamonds come into view. "A straight flush," he mutters and then stands up, pushing his chair back with the force of it. "A straight flush!" he yells stabbing his finger in Bodie's direction. "You've been winning all night! No-one's that lucky!"

A hush falls over the table. It's as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting for Bodie to speak.

When he does, it's with an icy calm and a look that would chill the most hardened of men. 

"Are you accusing me of cheating?" he asks softly.

The players either side of him shift uneasily in their seats and Doyle takes a step back, checking out the others and gauging the biggest threats. He's seen at least ten employees carrying guns in shoulder holsters, but he can't risk drawing his own. Too many bystanders, plus it's too early to show their hand yet.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

The genial tones of their host bring a much-needed relief to events. Unfortunately it boosts Dalton up again. "No-one's that lucky," he repeats, with less force than before. "Philips has been winning all night."

"Or maybe you're just a bad loser," Bodie suggests with a glint in his eye.

"Now, now, gentlemen, shall we resolve this elsewhere? My office is upstairs and it's more private than here." It's phrased as a question, but there's no doubt that Papadopoulos intends to be obeyed as he gestures to a side door.

After a silence where Bodie and Dalton attempt to stare each other down, Bodie pushes his chair back slowly and deliberately. "Of course," he says smoothly, straightening his cuffs as he stands. He bows mockingly to Dalton. "After you."

Dalton contents himself with one last deathly glare at Bodie before turning round to follow their host into a corridor that leads to the stairs Doyle used a few minutes ago. 

"Your friend, Alan, says that Papadopoulos and Mallory have taken an interest in you," Bodie says in low tones as he and Doyle ascend the stairs together.

"Nothing I can't handle," Doyle reassures him, just as quietly. "What makes you think he's my friend?"

"He seemed rather concerned about you. Maybe he's taken a shine to you, then?" 

"Yeah, well, you've either got it or you haven't." 

"You could say the same about gonorrhoea."

"I haven't—"

"Through here, please. Let's see if we can resolve this as gentlemen, hmmm?" Papadopoulos shows them all into a room that is all too familiar to Doyle. It's the room he was in earlier prior to meeting Bodie at the card table. Mallory is now seated at the desk, smoking a cigar that smells every bit as foul as one of Anson's. He gets to his feet as the party of men troop in.

"What's this?" he asks. "Dalton found himself someone to pay off his debts?"

"Unfortunately not," Papadopoulos replies, smoothly. "Mr. Dalton thinks Mr. Philips was cheating. I thought we could resolve the matter here."

Mallory eyes Bodie up and down. "Philips is certainly cheating at something," he says.

"What do you mean by that?"

"He's the straightest gay man I've ever met."

"One has to keep up appearances," Bodie replies. "Some of my business acquaintances wouldn't take kindly to my inclinations."

"You're a straight man," Mallory insists.

"So, I'm a cheat and I'm not queer. Anything else? The assassination of JFK, perhaps? Not sure I have an alibi for that day."

"I like to know who we're doing business with," Mallory says, coldly. "If you're lying about that, what else are you hiding?"

Bodie smiles mockingly. "We're _all_ businessmen," he says. "We all have secrets."

Papadopoulos nods approvingly at this, but Mallory still looks irritated.

"Look," Bodie says, spreading his hands out in conciliation. "I've come here to possibly do a bit of business, make some contacts, win a little money—" Dalton snorts at this, but Bodie carries on as if he hasn't heard "—and that's all. I didn't want to be distracted, so I hired Raymond to be my companion for the evening—"

"I knew it!" Dalton yells.

Bodie turns cold eyes on him. "There was no deception involved. Raymond accompanies me on many business occasions as I have no permanent partner in my life." 

Mallory looks Bodie up and down, deliberately. "One way to settle this," he says and jerks his head towards Doyle. "Kiss him."

Bodie looks to Papadopoulos for support. "I thought you were the man in charge here," he says.

"And so I am. Please do as you are asked."

"In front of you lot? Get stu—"

"Indulge us," Papadopoulos demands. 

"And not a quick peck on the cheek, either," Mallory says.

Bodie looks as though he's not going to do it. Wanting to make things easier, Doyle touches Bodie's arm. "Come on Andrew, the sooner we do this, the sooner you can get down to the real business you came here for."

"You don't have to do this," Bodie says.

"He's just a whore. That's what he does," Papadopoulos says in a sharp tone. "Now. If you want my associate and I to do business with you, then proceed with the request."

Doyle glances at Bodie. _Business associate!_ Mallory appears to be in deeper than they originally suspected!

Bodie's eyes flicker; he's noticed the connection. He's clearly uncomfortable with a semi-public display, though. Kissing is not something they've discussed, but it's too late to put that right now. 

Doyle attempts to take the lead, knowing that he's the one expected to be more showy, more experienced, and that it's Bodie they're watching. However, even as he turns towards his partner, he finds Bodie mirroring his actions and, just as they do in all other aspects of the job, they move together instinctively and without embarrassment or self-consciousness. 

"I don't normally mix business with pleasure," Bodie says, his hands finding the perfect place on Doyle's body. His voice is flat while his eyes linger on Doyle's mouth. "I suppose I can make an exception just this once."

Doyle has thought about kissing Bodie before, but the scenarios played in his head have always made the act private, and usually end in them shagging each other's brains out. Fantasies – that's all they are, but here he is now with Bodie in front of him demanding to be kissed. Lacing his hands loosely behind Bodie's head, he tilts his head to meet Bodie. 

Bodie's lips are warm, and the kiss feels so real that Doyle has to remind himself they're playing a part. He's aware of Bodie in a way he's never been before. The smell, the feel, the taste of him and it's with some reluctance that he feels Bodie pull away. There's a flash of something in Bodie's eyes, but it's gone before he can decipher it. He allows himself the luxury of running a hand down Bodie's back and feeling the powerful muscles beneath his fingertips as they turn back towards the others, united as always.

No-one's gone for a gun yet, so it must have been as convincing as it felt.

"That's not the kiss of two straight men," Mallory says, leering, perched on the edge of the desk.

"Satisfied now?" Bodie asks, coolly. "Only I don't like my integrity being questioned."

"That will do for now, certainly," Papadopoulos agrees, unfazed by the whole demonstration. "One can never be too careful in this game."

Bodie nods in apparent approval. "Just one other thing," he says, smoothly and his voice doesn't alter, but his demeanour does. "If you _ever_ call my friend a whore again, I'll lay you out on the floor." His eyes flash around the room. "That applies to any of you."

A shocked silence follows and Doyle wonders if Bodie's gone too far. In his experience, businessmen don't defend their paid escort's honour to other businessmen, especially if they wish to make deals with them.

One of the bodyguards takes a step forward, but Papadopoulos waves him back, impatiently. "You will forgive me for being cautious," he states, with no hint of apology in his voice. "Only when two men turn up at one of my parties wearing guns, I start to feel nervous, no matter how good their credentials seem to be. Especially when one of them is just a—" Papadopoulos hesitates when he sees the grim expression on Bodie's face "—a companion," he amends. "Tell, me... why does your _companion_ feel the need to carry a gun?"

His 'companion' can answer for himself, thank you very much, so Doyle answers before Bodie can. "In my line of business it doesn't hurt to have a few skills that others can't provide," he says. "Gun play is very big amongst wealthy businessmen nowadays." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Dalton looks vaguely sick, while Mallory looks interested.

"Does it make you feel like a big man, carrying around a loaded weapon?" Papadopoulos asks.

Doyle laughs, the concept genuinely amusing him. "I'm not a big man," he confesses. "But I like to be in with those who are."

Papadopoulos turns to Bodie. "Are _you_ a big man, Mr. Philips?" he enquires.

"Yes," Bodie replies, simply. "Is that a problem?"

Papadopoulos looks across at Mallory who shakes his head. "No, not at all. I think we may be able to do business after all."

"Are you done now?" Dalton whines, disgust clear on his face. "Only if I wanted to see faggots making out, I'd have visited my cousin more often."

Mallory sneers. "The last time you visited your dear cousin, it all ended badly, if I recall correctly."

Bodie stiffens imperceptibly, and Doyle can feel the tension radiating off him. This doesn't sound good. He goes over the room layout in his head again: two windows, one door that leads to another room, a second that leads out into the corridor. He knows that if Bodie goes for Dalton the man will be dead before anyone has registered what's happening, and then there'll be hell to pay with Cowley. 

Bugger Cowley. If Bodie goes for Dalton, Doyle will back him up to the hilt. 

He just hopes it won't come to that.

Dalton is glaring at Mallory, his face red with anger. "What about my money?" he demands, pointing at Bodie again. "He was cheating!"

"Change the record, Dalton, you're a crap player and a bad loser," Mallory snarls, shuffling papers around on the desk.

"You weren't there!"

"I didn't have to be. I've seen you play!"

Bodie surreptitiously taps Doyle on the thigh with the backs of his fingers and looks out of the window. Doyle follows his gaze to see car headlights moving along the driveway leading up to the house. 

_Company,_ Bodie mouths.

Doyle nods grimly. There are too many cars for them to be more party guests. Maybe there's a 'business' meeting after the party. If so, Doyle wants to be there.

The banging from the front of the house brings all conversation to a halt. With a tremendous bang, the front door is kicked in and heavily booted feet thunder upstairs and down.

Papadopoulos and Mallory escape through the door that leads to another room. Dalton is standing still, like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights. 

"He'll keep!" Doyle yells, slapping Bodie on the arm and running in the same direction as Papadopoulos and Mallory.

"You'll keep," Bodie promises Dalton through clenched teeth and races to back his partner up.

  


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"Of all the stupid, irresponsible—" Cowley's leg is giving him gyp today, but that's not stopping him from pouring a tirade of abuse onto Bodie and Doyle while pacing up and down in his office.

"With respect, sir, it wasn't our fault." Bodie stares straight ahead while Doyle is - what can only be described as - _lolling_ against a filing cabinet.

"Aye, you would say that, 3.7. And I'm sure you'd be right."

Bodie raises an eyebrow and shares an incredulous look with Doyle at the admission.

"I was referring to Special Branch mounting an operation on that scale without alerting the Minister." Cowley gives in and sits down behind his desk. "Three months of research and planning all down the Swannee, because of their arrogance and incompetence." 

"What about the forged £50 notes I saw?" Doyle asks.

"They weren't found, and the one you acquired is not enough to put forward as evidence," Cowley replies, bluntly. "A cock-up from start to finish, and we – we! – have to clear up the mess left behind." 

"What about Dalton, sir?" Bodie asks.

"What about him?"

"He as good as admitted he had a hand in his cousin's death. I think we should reopen the file."

"That won't be happening."

"But, sir—"

"Are you questioning my orders _again_ , 3.7?" Cowley snaps.

"Richard Dalton has a gambling debt that he has no hope of repaying without his father's help," Bodie ploughs on, regardless. "I think that he got worried his father was going to acknowledge Jerry as his son and divide his inheritance up. He couldn't risk it."

"And so he did the deed, planted the fake blackmail note, and got away with it because there were more Daltons than the neighbours could count," Cowley finishes to Bodie's amazement.

"You knew?"

"I may be long in the tooth but there's not much that gets past me, lad." He shuffles papers about on his desk. "However, it's only a theory and one that would take a hell of a lot of proving. The case will remain closed. Now, the both of you, take a couple of days off."

Doyle straightens up, grinning. Bodie stays still.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Cowley asks, not looking up from his desk.

"No, sir," Doyle answers, making for the door. He holds it open for Bodie.

"No, sir," Bodie replies. There's more than one way to obtain justice, and he'll have to do it the old-fashioned way.

"Bodie, before you do anything reckless, remember one thing," Cowley says, lifting his head. Bodie meets the piercing gaze unflinchingly. 

"This time, I _officially_ know of your personal interest. Close the door on your way out."

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Doyle glances at his watch as he heads the car out of the city. Eleven thirty. The night is still young, and he's feeling restless.

As bed partners go, Roberta is energetic and enthusiastic. Always warm and willing, she's never bothered when work calls him off a date and she's very appreciative of his talents. Normally he would be content to stay over, but that's not enough tonight. He's made the excuse that he has work in the morning and now he's headed for a different kind of fulfilment.

He needs a man. Damnit, he _wants_ Bodie, but that's never going to happen. The past that he tried to bury when he left with his mum and step-dad to start a new life in London was never going to resurface at a good time, but he had hoped it would stay hidden for a while longer.

All in all, it hasn't been a successful op. He's frustrated with the unsatisfactory conclusion, tense from the strain of working undercover and randy as hell from working so closely with Bodie. He needs to unwind and he's found just the place to do it.

The club on the outskirts of Chelmsford isn't one that Doyle has visited before, but he's heard good things about it on the grapevine. Dressed in his tightest jeans and a slim fitting t-shirt with a hint of stubble and a splash of Brut, he's confident he'll attract the sort of man he needs tonight.

And then, maybe, with the urge satisfied, he'll be able to look at Bodie, work with him, go out with him, without wanting him.

Maybe.

  


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Bodie orders another drink, flirting with the barman outrageously. He's been to this club a few times, and he'll have to make this his last time. He can't afford to be recognised as a regular customer in a place like this. He's been propositioned three times, but he fancies a challenge – someone who'll make him work hard for a shag.

He'd bet that Doyle would make him work hard. 

He shifts on the bar stool. Just thinking about his partner gets him hard. It was only an evening spent undercover as lovers, and Doyle played the part of a rent boy as if he was born to it. The kiss they shared may have been for show, but Bodie can still feel the weight of Doyle's lips on his and the hardness of Doyle's muscular body underneath his fingers.

His eyes wander around the club, looking for a Ray Doyle lookalike. There's a bloke on the dance floor wearing the tightest faded blue jeans ever. No, he's too muscley – Doyle's muscles are hidden in a lithe, wiry body and are only apparent when you get up close and personal with him.

A man standing at the end of the bar raises a glass to him. He's tall and wiry, but his hair is straight and his eyes too close together. Bodie shakes his head regretfully. Another time, perhaps. The man shrugs, no offence taken.

A man leaning against the wall near the Gents' is wearing a t-shirt so tight his nipples are poking through. His hair is wild and curly, and with the way he's leaning, he could almost be Doyle.

Bodie looks again. Bloody hell! It _is_ Doyle!

A voice breathes into his ear. "Hello, handsome. Buy me a drink?" 

"No," Bodie growls, getting to his feet.

"Ooh. Your loss!" The vision in chiffon and polyester moves along the bar to the next likely conquest.

While Bodie thinks over what to say to Doyle, a big bear of a man moves in. Doyle and he exchange a few words, then Doyle nods and they leave the club via a side door marked 'No Exit'.

A hundred thoughts run through Bodie's mind and then instinct and training kick in. He follows them through the side door and out into the moonlit car park, where he slips into the shadows unseen.

Bodie doesn't know why he's watching. He knows that Doyle is out here away from prying eyes, and he knows Doyle's temper well enough to berate himself for staying.

But he's watched out for Doyle so long that he can't turn away. 

Bodie watches as the unknown man turns Doyle roughly to face the wall. Doyle braces himself and the other man moves behind, a hand curling around Doyle's slim waist to caress the flat stomach and grope the denim-clad crotch, as he pushes his groin against Doyle's arse.

Bodie feels the bile rise up, burning in his throat, and unconsciously clenches his fists. He's not sure who he's the most angry at -- Doyle for getting himself in this situation or this stranger for having the nerve to take on _his_ partner.

His obviously _not_ -straight partner!

The stranger nips at Doyle's neck and Doyle turns his head to snarl at him, freezing when he sees Bodie glowering in the shadows.

"Go away," he warns. "This has nothing to do with you." The glint in his eye has nothing to do with the moonlight and Bodie recognises the signs of Doyle holding his temper in check.

The other man follows Doyle's gaze, and squints at the blurred shape. "Like the pretty boy 'ere says, pal. Fuck off," he says, his hand roughly unzipping Doyle's jeans and disappearing inside. 

Bodie steps into view, watching Doyle's face. Fear and resignation flit across the so-familiar features and are then gone as quickly as they came, to be replaced by a blank mask. Neither take their eyes off each other until Bodie is reminded there's a third party here.

"Do you wanna watch then? Get your kicks that way, do you? Or you could join in. There's enough for both of us." 

The leer fades as steely blue eyes are turned onto him and Bodie takes a perverse pleasure in seeing the fear on the other man's face as he takes another step forward. He had briefly considered letting Doyle know he's there and then disappearing, giving Doyle the option of staying or going. But not now. Not with this bastard who thinks he can take on _his_ partner. 

"Get your hands off him," he warns, icy menace dripping from every word. 

"An' if I don't?" For all his bluster, the man stands up warily, easing his hand out of Doyle's jeans.

"If you _don't_ ," Bodie promises him, nostrils flaring, "You'll be wearing your bollocks as a necklace. Now. Get your hands. Off."

"You're a flamin' nutcase," the man accuses, backing off. "Next time you come on to a bloke," he says to Doyle, "do us all a favour and make sure yer boyfriend isn't around." He disappears round the corner.

"Thanks, _mate_ ," Doyle snarls, pushing away from the wall and zipping himself up. "Next time you fancy getting your rocks off, let me know and I'll be sure to come along and balls things up for _you_."

"Doyle!"

Doyle pushes past him, angrily, to get to his car.

"Ray!" 

Bodie desperately grabs his arm as he passes. Doyle whips round and his fist would have landed on a man with slower reflexes, but Bodie knows his partner and anticipates the move, grabbing the hand and twisting it downwards, holding it behind Doyle's back.

"Are you mad?" he hisses, their bodies so close he can smell the fading arousal on Doyle. "You didn't know that bloke. He could have been anybody. _Any_ body, Ray! Did you even find out his name?"

Doyle squirms in Bodie's grasp. "You can talk!" he accuses. "How many women have you shagged and forgotten their names, much less found out what they do for a living?"

"Difference is, I don't turn my back on them. And I don't choose someone who can tear me in half. Did you see the size of him? Christ, Doyle!"

"Yeah, well I'm a big boy now, mum. I know what I can take—"

"Oh, yeah?" Bodie sneers, disbelieving. "Enjoy it, do you?" he carries on, twisting Doyle's arm a little harder and ignoring the hiss of pain from his partner. "You like it hard and rough?"

Doyle slumps forward and Bodie relaxes his grip, falling for the feint. Doyle neatly twists out of his grip and pushes forcefully on Bodie's chest, green eyes flashing angrily. "No, I don't _like_ it," he contradicts, jabbing with his forefinger, "but I learnt early on that men pay more the harder you can take it. So I gritted my teeth and took it. Harder and deeper. Moaning like the filthy whore I was for more, in the hope I'd get paid extra. And now, it's the only way I _can_ take it, the only way I can get myself off. I get satisfaction from it, but it doesn't make me feel good about myself."

A shiver runs down Bodie's spine.

" _Paid?_ " he repeats, knowing he has a stupid expression on his face. "You were a…?"

Doyle flinches and lets his hand fall by his side. "Yeah. A whore. A cheap whore. No, actually, I wasn't cheap." He laughs: a hollow, empty laugh that turns his face ugly as he remembers his teenage years and the men who were so captivated by his slim body and striking features that they asked for him by name. "I made a decent living out of it until…."

He absent-mindedly rubs his fingers along the cheekbone implant on his face and Bodie is filled with an unreasonable desire to find the person who hurt Doyle and to make sure they will never hurt anyone else again.

"It's not always like that between men," he says.

"It is where I come from."

"And Cowley? Bloody hell, Doyle, you have to be kidding. What if Cowley finds out—"

"He's way ahead of you."

"He knows?" A thought suddenly strikes Bodie. "Hang on, he wasn't one of your—?"

He stops at the murderous expression on his partner's face.

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," Doyle warns.

"Well, you're not telling me that Cowley approves of this…." He gestures around him.

"This?" Doyle's teeth are clenched as he hisses at Bodie. "Do me a favour. The old man can turn a blind eye to a lot of things, but this?" He shakes his head. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Of course I'm not."

"Still want me for your partner?"

 _Still want you, full stop_ , Bodie thinks, and while he's hesitating, Doyle's expression changes. He smiles, slow and deadly, showing a glimpse of teeth. Bodie is reminded of the story of catching a tiger by its tail, and wonders when it will be safe to let go.

"You're thinking, aren't you?" Doyle asks, softly, and there's no pleasure in his voice. "You're thinking about what it would be like to fuck a man. Do you want to try it? How about here? Or against the wall—" 

Bodie can't move, but he should get away before he does the very thing he's been fighting against.

Doyle raises his voice, the rage making him reckless. "How about against your car, Bodie? Do you want to bend me over the bonnet and fuck me senseless?" 

"And if I did, you'd let me, wouldn't you?" Bodie shouts back. "What the hell would that do to our partnership then?" 

"Does it matter? The partnership's fucked anyway!"

"You're talking out of your arse, Doyle! There's nothing wrong with—"

"No? You're happy working with a whore, are you? You'll trust your life to someone who'll spread his legs for anyone as long as they can come up with the money?"

"You're not the only one with a past," Bodie hisses. "And you've always looked out for me so far. We look out for each other!"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have done it if you'd known the truth about me!"

"Glass houses and stones... there's no-one in CI5 who hasn't some sort of dodgy record and you know all about mine—" He stops as he realises one part of his past and present that he's never shared.

Doyle misinterprets the break in conversation and strides off to his car.

"Doyle, wait a minute. Doyle! Ray!" Bodie yells, running after him. He puts a hand out and Doyle pushes him away angrily, wrenching on the car door as he gets in and starts the engine.

The Capri's wheels spin round, kicking up dust and stones and Doyle leaves Bodie standing alone in the car park.

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

By the time Doyle arrives home, his temper is simmering. How _dare_ Bodie follow him to a club and mess up his chances of a good shag? How would he like it if Doyle were to do the same to him? Stripping off his t-shirt, he throws it in the laundry bin and paces around his flat while contemplating a messy revenge on his partner.

A noise at the front door has him retrieving his gun from the coffee table and pointing it as the door swings inwards.

Bodie shows his empty hands and Doyle lowers his gun. "That key is for emergencies only."

"Didn't think you'd let me in."

Doyle stuffs his gun back in the holster. "I wouldn't have," he admits. "Bugger off, Bodie."

"I'm here now. You left in the middle of a conversation. That's very rude."

"Ah."

Bodie's eyes narrow. "What do you mean, 'ah'?"

Doyle toes his trainers off and walks to the bedroom. Bodie follows. "Ray?"

Doyle unzips his jeans and snaps open the button. Bodie has seen him naked, so he's not bothered about undressing in front of him. Hell, the other night with the two birds from the disco, they could see each other on the job with the door open between the living room and bedroom. The sight of Bodie's arse, buttocks clenching and quivering, brought him to completion far quicker than the moans that Sophie was making beneath him.

"You went to a gay club, Bodie. You must have been curious."

"I – I never –" Bodie starts to protest.

"Not even with me? I'm very disappointed, sunshine." And he lunges forward to kiss Bodie.

It's not like the kiss they had for show. This is hard and desperate with tongues and teeth, and if Bodie was protesting before, he's certainly not doing it now. Doyle presses his hips against Bodie's and a hiss escapes from both of them.

"Too many clothes, mate," Doyle murmurs in Bodie's ear, undoing his belt buckle.

"Allow me," Bodie insists and Doyle moves away, shimmying out of his jeans and briefs. When he turns back, Bodie is naked from the waist down and is pulling his shirt and t-shirt over his head in one fluid move.

Doyle licks his lips at the sight of Bodie's erect cock, bobbing against his stomach. He pushes Bodie back against the wall and drops to one knee, rubbing his cheek against Bodie's cock.

"Christ, Ray, you're killing me," Bodie moans, letting his head thud back against the wall.

Bodie's cock feels as magnificent as it looks. Wrapping a hand around to keep it steady, Doyle licks up the underside from base to tip and swirls his tongue around the top before taking it all in his mouth. Licking and sucking takes away the frustrations of the past couple of days and he's disappointed when he feels Bodie's hand in his hair, pulling him away.

"I'll come if you keep on doing that," Bodie warns him, his face and neck flushed. "Shall we get into bed, seeing as we've got undressed?"

"Might as well," Doyle says, and they both fling themselves on the bed, with Doyle ending up on top. He thrusts his hips downwards, feeling the delicious glide of their cocks rubbing together.

"Fuck... Doyle..." Bodie pants.

"Don't think we've got time for that. I'm pretty close."

"Me too. Here." Bodie worms his hands between their bodies and wraps one around Doyle's cock, the other around his own and starts pumping. 

Doyle lifts his weight onto his arms and lets his head hang down so that he can see Bodie masturbating them both. "Bodie...." he moans.

Bodie grunts in reply and Doyle carries on saying his name and thrusting into his hand, living out his fantasy of having Bodie in his bed. All too soon, the familiar tightening of his balls signals his orgasm is imminent. Crying out Bodie's name once more, he comes, coating Bodie's hand and stomach with his semen, never wanting it to stop because he knows this is the one and only time he'll have with Bodie.

Having ridden out the after effects of his orgasm, he shifts onto his side. Bodie stays on his back, putting on a show, Doyle guesses, but he's not complaining. Watching Bodie wank, he drawls swirls in the spunk on Bodie's firm abdomen and massages some of it into Bodie's taut balls. Yelling Doyle's name, Bodie thrusts his hips upwards and orgasms, thick ribbons of come spurting from his cock and onto his stomach.

Doyle yawns, suddenly tired. "Stay," he tells Bodie. "It's late." He'll probably regret it in the morning, but Bodie hasn't run out of the flat in horror yet and they've shared a bed before. Wanking together is new though, and Doyle goes to sleep with a smile on his face and Bodie's arm slung around his waist.

  


[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v280/sassyb/?action=view&current=HambelDivider.jpg)

  


 

Bodie wakes with a smile on his face that gets wider when he remembers why he's smiling. Even the dried flakes of semen on his stomach do nothing to dampen his mood, and he washes it off when he goes to the bathroom.

There's a clean t-shirt and clean underpants for him in Doyle's drawer that he pulls on and goes looking for his partner. He hopes Doyle isn't having second thoughts. He's a great one for overthinking stuff and there's no need. Now that they've actually got this far there's no going back unless they want to.

And Bodie doesn't want to.

Doyle is in the kitchen, an empty plate in front of him at the table.

"There's toast in for you," Doyle says, gesturing to the toaster. 

There's tea, too and Bodie nods his thanks, sitting down at the table. The silence stretches uncomfortably as Bodie pours out a mug of tea and sits back in the chair.

"Is this going to be some sort of awkward morning-after scenario?" he asks, lightly.

Doyle gets up without another word, throwing his dirty crockery in the sink and running the tap.

Bodie stands up. "Ray?"

"Don't get used to it. It won't be happening again."

"Eh?"

"I'm not going to be your experiment, Bodie." Doyle shuts the water off, twisting the tap viciously.

"Experiment? Didn't it look as though I knew what I was doing? I had my hand on your cock, for Christ's sake!"

"Big deal! You've spent years perfecting that on yourself. Of course it was going to be good."

"It _was_ good, wasn't it?"

Doyle mutters something and looks away. 

Bodie presses home his advantage. "Was it good when I wanked us both off together? Did my cock feel good sliding against yours?" He moves closer to Doyle, lowering his voice. "When you came over my hand, didn't you want to—?"

Doyle makes a noise and Bodie hesitates. Next, he's got his back to the wall, with an angry Doyle in front, pinning him with an arm across his chest and throat.

"Don't take the piss, Bodie," Doyle snarls. "You either accept me for what I am, or you ask for another partner." 

"What the—" Bodie chokes out. 

"I'm not the easy option. I won't be used whenever you can't be bothered to put in the effort for a bird!" Doyle punctuates his words by pressing harder against Bodie's windpipe. "If you think that, you can fuck right off!"

This isn't at all how Bodie imagined the day would turn out and he'll be damned if he'll let Doyle keep the upper hand, no matter how good the sex was... or could be. 

He twists his body, grunting with the effort of it, and pushes Doyle away, dislodging the arm at his throat. Doyle flails, grabbing at Bodie's arm as he falls and two chairs topple over with the force of the two men. Punches are thrown and they end up on the floor, legs entangled. Doyle kicks out, more in frustration if the lack of a follow-up is anything to go by, and Bodie steps back, the kitchen table halting his progress. 

With a glare and a snarl, Doyle storms out of the room. It might have been an impressive sight if they hadn't both been dressed in t-shirt and underpants and nothing else.

Bodie sets the chairs back upright and then remembers it's not even his flat. He can feel blood trickling from the corner of his mouth which he dabs at with the back of his hand and then looks at with distaste. Starting with his jaw, he checks the most vulnerable areas of his body and concludes that nothing's broken or sprained.

Doyle can't have wanted to hurt him too much, then.

With that thought in mind, he goes to find his stroppy partner. Predictably, Doyle is sprawled in an armchair in the living room, a glass of scotch dangling from his fingers. There's a bruise forming on his jaw, but apart from that he seems none the worse for wear.

Keen green eyes track Bodie's movements to the sideboard. 

"May I?" Bodie asks with exaggerated politeness, pointing to the whisky.

Doyle shrugs. "'Course. You've never asked before."

Bodie unscrews the cap and pours himself a generous measure. "Never been told to fuck off by you before," he answers.

The corners of Doyle's mouth twitch. "Yeah, you have."

Bodie salutes him with the glass. "Yeah," he concedes, "but never after we've had sex together."

"Is that what it was?"

Bodie sighs in exasperation. "Felt like it to me." He perches on the arm of the couch, far enough away not to be a threat to Doyle and close enough to talk comfortably. "Look, Ray, we're not kids anymore and we're definitely not birds."

"Right so far," Doyle agrees, warily. 

"And we both like men in the shagging-each-other's-brains-out, licking-each-other's-tonsils kind of way."

Doyle snorts. "I haven't seen you snogging too many blokes."

"Could say the same about you, sunshine, before that assignment."

Doyle salutes with his glass to concede the point. "Not something you want your straight work colleague to find out."

"No. But what if your work colleague is not as straight as you thought and feels as good as you've always suspected between the sheets?"

"I've never suspected anything nancy about you."

"Hoped for, then. C'mon, Doyle, are you telling me this was a spur of the moment thing? That you've never thought about it before?"

"Yeah."

The quietly spoken word throws Bodie for a moment.

Doyle clears his throat and looks down at his glass, twirling it in his fingers. "Yeah, it was a spur of the moment thing," he clarifies. "But I've thought about it before. Often."

Bodie can't stop himself from grinning. "Really?" 

Doyle must've heard the glee in his voice because he looks up. "Yeah," he answers, with a wry grin. "And you can take that smug look off your face, you bastard!"

Bodie tries to look scandalised. "What smug look?" he protests, but his heart isn't in it because he finds himself grinning again.

"Tell me Bodie, just how straight are you?"

"About as straight as you, by the look of it."

"I've seen you with women."

"Same here. Prefer men though. Unfortunately that's not to be encouraged when you're in Her Majesty's employ." He raises an eyebrow. "Can't have queers saving the nation – the country will go to rack and ruin." He puts his glass down on the coffee table. "Didn't you ever wonder why I touched you so often?"

Doyle looks abashed. "Didn't question it. I liked it," he admits, then shrugs. "I like your hands all over me."

"Good. Because I intend to carry on doing it." Bodie stands up and extends an arm. "Are we going to carry on talking? Thought you were a man of action."

"Oh, I am." Doyle levers himself out of the chair. "Give us a kiss, sunshine."

Doyle settles his hands on Bodie's hips, while Bodie drapes his arms over Doyle's shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles of Doyle's back beneath his fingertips. 

Before Bodie can make another move, Doyle hooks a foot behind his calf and pulls on the leg, causing Bodie to land on his back on the floor. A second later, and Doyle is crouching over him on all fours, leering. 

"I have to warn you, I'm a man with a voracious sexual appetite," he says, stretching his lower body to lie over Bodie's.

"Does that mean you'll be able to keep up with me?" Bodie asks, spreading his legs a little. "I haven't yet met a man who can."

As expected, Doyle takes up the gauntlet. "You're going to need all of your training to keep up with me, soldier boy," he brags, lowering his lips to Bodie's neck. A growl leaves Bodie's throat as Doyle sets to work on his neck, licking and biting, faultless lips kissing everywhere they touch.

Bodie settles his hands on Doyle's bum, squeezing his buttocks and enjoying the sounds that Doyle makes as he does so. "You're like a squeaky toy," he tells him.

Doyle chuckles. "That's a new one," he says. "Never been told that before."

"Well, obviously you've never had your arse played with sufficiently before. I intend to remedy that."

"Oh yeah," Doyle murmurs. Then: "Hang on."

"What?"

"What do we tell Cowley?"

"We don't need to tell him anything, do we?"

"Don't we?"

Bodie shakes his head. "No, this is between you and me, sunshine. This is personal."

 

~End~


End file.
